


The Notorious Nell Pickerell

by redheadedbisexual



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, American Civil War RPF, Historical RPF, The CiviliTy of Albert Cashier - Stevens & Wooden/Deratany
Genre: Alternate History, American Civil War, American History, Canon Trans Character, Historical, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Queer History, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-09 19:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18644872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redheadedbisexual/pseuds/redheadedbisexual
Summary: It's 1892, and Union Veteran Albert Cashier has gone to Chicago to attend his regiment's thirty year reunion. As he arrives in the city, he has a run in with local vagrant Harry Allen. Despite Harry's rowdiness and unmatched talent for getting into trouble, Albert can't help but feel a certain fondness this rebellious young outcast. Perhaps, he may even go so far as to begrudgingly call him a friend.





	1. In the Tavern Alley

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the real life of Albert DJ Cashier, a trans man who fought in the American Civil War, and also on the Civility of Albert Cashier, a musical about Albert's life. I included some characters from the musical, as well as a character based on a real person. Harry Allen, also a trans man, was a notorious outlaw in Seattle in the 1910s. For convenience sake I put Harry in Chicago, and pushed his birth date back ten years. In the actual scheme of history, he would've been only 10 years old and living in Seattle in 1892.

As he stepped off the train Albert was struck by the strange smell of the air. It was heavy with coal dust and manure, with the hint of rotting food mixed in. He studied the crowded station with a disapproving gaze. How he had been persuaded to leave his modest homestead in Saunemin for a weekend in the city remained a mystery, though he supposed it had something to do with his fondness for his old friend Jeffery N. Davis.

He kept his head bowed as he pushed his way through the crowded platform and towards the exit; it was his habit to direct attention away from himself as much as was possible. As he stepped onto the street, he called to mind the directions he’d received in a letter a few days previously.

_Leave the station, take a left, then the third right, cut down the alley that passes alongside the tavern, then stay on Maple Street until you reach house 301._

Jeff had offered to meet him at the station, and as he looked around, Albert began to think he had been foolish to decline. He brushed the thought aside, stubbornly determined to prove his capability to navigate the city on his own.

Overwhelmed as he may have been with the bustling city, Albert followed the directions well enough, and it wasn’t long before he was turning down the aforementioned alley past the tavern and nearing his final destination. Just as his mind was beginning to ease, the click of a pistol loading had him frozen in his tracks.

“Don’t move!” called a youthful voice.

Albert didn’t need to be told twice. He allowed himself only the slightest turn of his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of his attacker. From behind a stack of discarded cases of rum emerged an imposing young man—though it didn’t take much to appear imposing beside Albert Cashier, who had always been unfortunately short—with dark hair and darker eyes. He appeared to be many years Albert’s junior, probably somewhere around twenty years of age, and though he carried himself with an air of confidence, his face was still marked with traces of boyhood. He held his pistol steady as he looked Albert over, instructing him to drop the small suitcase he held in his left hand.

Albert did as instructed, turning to face him fully as he did. The boy glanced down the alley, a hint of anxiety flashing through his eyes, and seeing this weakness Albert felt a small shred of courage return to him.

“Now give me your coat!” The boy demanded.

“Well I don’t see what used you’d find in a worn old rag like this,” Albert muttered, “But I’m hardly in a position to protest.”

“Like hell you are, old man…” the boy muttered.

“Who are you calling old?”

Though he refused to call himself old, the lines on Albert’s face and the grey that streaked his hair certainly said otherwise.

He carefully undid the buttons of his coat and shrugged out of it, his eyes carefully fixed on his attacker and the weapon he held. As he finished, Albert dropped it at the boy’s feet.

Again the boy glanced down the alley as though he expected to be followed. Albert noted also, as he examined the boy closer in the moment he looked a way, a smear of blood stained his collar and trickled down his vest. His cheek was bruised as well, and his left eye was swollen from a recent blow, though there was no apparent source of blood. Perhaps, Albert thought with a shudder, it was not his own.

“And your vest and shirt,” the boy said, his attention returned to his victim. As he spoke, he began with one hand to fumble with the buttons of his own vest.  
So it was a change of clothes he was after. Between this and his frequent glances down the alley, Albert surmised the boy must be on the run from someone and was hoping to use a stranger’s clothes to camouflage himself.

“On the run, are you?” Albert ventured, unbuttoning his vest with great caution. He freed himself from the garment and let it join his coat on the ground. “The vest and coat I’ll let you have, my boy, but spare an old man his dignity,” he continued, employing the boy’s own words in a hope of invoking some sense of sympathy. “Let me keep my shirt and trousers.”

The boy was unmoved. He restated his demand for Albert’s shirt, eyes fixed firmly upon the garment in question.

“And if I refuse? What then?”

“I’ll pry it off your cold dead body, old man, now give me your god damn shirt!”

“Go on then,” Albert said, hoping to god that his opponent could not sense the terror he was hiding behind this act of confidence. “Shoot me! Go on, do it!”

The boy stood frozen, his hand shaking ever so slightly. Albert had called his bluff: he could not shoot. Not if it was his aim to avoid discovery by whoever pursued him. A moment later, the boy rushed forward with clear intentions of pinning his victim against the wall. To his credit, Albert made a valiant effort to resist, and even managed to knock the pistol from the boy’s hands and send it gliding across the pavement out of reach. In his youth, Albert knew could easily have matched his attacker’s strength. After all, young Albert had faced three years in the bloodiest war yet known to America, and it was by more than luck that he had emerged unscathed. But thirty years had taken its toll, and Albert was far from the strong young soldier he’d once been.

After a brief scuffle the boy had Albert against the wall. With one arm he pinned Albert’s hands above his head, while his free hand reached beneath Albert’s shirt, untucking it from his trousers and endeavoring to pull it up towards his shoulders. Seized with fear, Albert could do nothing but suppress, for the sake of pride more than anything else, a pitiful cry of anguish. He knew not what horrors awaited him when the boy inevitably discovered what was concealed beneath his shirt, but he did not imagine it would be at all pleasant. Having difficulty, the boy let his hands travel higher beneath Albert’s shirt, snaking up over his stomach and across his ribs, and then, as he reached something he clearly had not expected to find, he froze.

Albert, helplessly resigned to whatever fate awaited him, met the boy’s eyes as a look of shock spread across his face. Much to Albert’s relief and surprise, he retreated, freeing Albert from his probing hands and taking several steps back. As he stepped back, he kept Albert’s gaze and, Albert noticed, the shock in his eyes began to subside, replaced by a look which left him puzzled. There was guilt in the boy’s gaze, certainly, but there was more than that. There was also a strange note of… sympathy? It seemed so. In fact, it bordered almost on understanding…

“Keep it,” the boy said roughly. He dropped his gaze to the coat and vest at his feet. “All of it.”

With one final mysterious gaze into Albert’s eyes, he turned on his heal, stopping only to retrieve his pistol from the ground before took off down the alley and out of sight.

 

* * *

 

“Albert Cashier!” Jeffery cried, throwing the door open and pulling his old friend into a warm hug on the steps of his Chicago home.

“Hey, Jeff…” was all Albert could manage through Jeffery’s tight hold.

It took only a moment for Jeff to withdraw, holding Albert at arm’s length and studying the fresh bruise on his cheek and the blood that trickled from a cut on his lip.

“Good lord, Albert! What happened to you?”

“Nothin’,” Albert muttered, pushing past Jeff into the house.

“It don’t look like ‘nothin’’,” Jeff said, mimicking Albert’s Irish brogue.

“Is that Mr. Cashier?” Jeff’s wife called from the next room over as Albert made himself comfortable in an arm chair.

“Always a pleasure, Mrs. Davis,” Albert answered as she joined them in the parlor.

“Betty, darlin’, go get something to dress these wounds, will you?” Jeff instructed her as he shut the door and moved to take a seat beside Albert.

“My heavens!” Betty cried as she took note of Albert injuries. “Of course! Oh dear, I’ll be right back…” With that she rushed off to the other room, returning a moment later with a wet rag and some ice.

“Now c’mon Albert,” Jeff began as he took the rag in hand and raised it gently to Albert’s face. Albert was honestly surprised he had managed to hold his interrogations off this long. “I ain’t no fool. No way you gave yourself this bloody face. It’s fresh too, that much I can tell. Go on and tell me what’s happened.”

“Nothin’ serious, really. Just got into some trouble walking over here from the station.”

“Yeah?”

“Some kid got me in the alley—”

“By the tavern! Oh, I should never have told you to take that way, Albert, I’m sorry, I just figured it was the quickest way, and since you were coming from—”

“It’s okay, Jeff,” Albert said, quieting him. He couldn’t help but smile at the nervous rambling that was so characteristic to his old friend.

“He didn’t get nothin’ off me,” Albert assured him. “And I tell you, it’s the blow to my pride that worries me more than any of these bruises. You should’ve seen him, Jeff. Thirty years ago I could’ve given him what he had coming, easy.”

“You mean you didn’t do just that today?” Jeff teased.

“Nah, he ran off when he heard someone passing by the alley,” Albert admitted, leaving a few details out of his story. Though Jeff knew his secret—he was the only person Albert had trusted with it in all these years—Albert saw no need to tell him about that part of the encounter. Jeff would only worry about him, and he wouldn’t have that. “Must’ve been worried about cops or somethin’.”

“You bring me with you next time and we’ll teach him to think twice before he messes with a veteran of Company G, you hear?”

“Yeah,” Albert smiled. “Sure, Jeff.”


	2. Notorious Nell Pickerell

Aside from Jeffery, Albert had lost touch with all his comrades shortly after the war ended. Not long after he was discharged, he had moved to Saunemin, and in the years since he had rarely left the quaint little village he called home. Even his friendship with Jeff only persisted after Jeff’s pestering letters had finally worn him down, and after Jeff informed him he had married a young girl from Belvidere. Though nothing was said on the subject, Jeff knew well when he wrote that letter that knowledge of his marriage would ease Albert’s mind, assuring him that Jeff had outgrown that boyish infatuation with Albert he had so awkwardly expressed at the end of the war. If Jeff were to be perfectly honest, however, even thirty years later that was only half true.

                 Jeff, on the other hand, had actively kept up with the men from Company G of the Illinois 95th Infantry. Up until he’d moved to Chicago last year, he had served as President of Belvidere’s local chapter of the Grand Army of the Republic, and he still retained membership, taking the train out to Belvidere when he could to go to meetings.

               Active as he was in the veteran community, he’d been instrumental in organizing the 30-year reunion of the Illinois 95th Infantry, set for September 4, 1892. The fourth of September marked thirty years to the day that their regiment had been mustered into the Union Army, and for Jeff and his friends in the GAR, this was cause for celebration.

               The ninety-fifth held reunions often, annually if they could manage it, but Albert had never made the effort to attend. He’d never been a very social person; even in his time in the service he had kept to himself, and aside from Jeff and a handful of others, he’d hardly known the men of his company. Yet after Jeff’s series of excited letters—somehow he managed to capture in writing that same habit of rambling on he had in speech—Albert had felt compelled to make an appearance. 

              The reunion itself wasn’t until Sunday, but on the Saturday preceding, the day after Albert’s arrival, several of the men of Company G gathered in the tavern up the road from Jeff’s house for a little reunion of their own.

                “That can’t be Jeffery N. Davis?” a voice called across the tavern as Jeff pushed through the door, Albert trailing behind.

                “You bet your sorry ass it is!” Jeff laughed, striding over to a gathering of four men in their fifties seated at the far end of the bar. He greeted the man who’d called after him with a hearty handshake, “Eli Brainard, you old bastard you! How are you?”

                “Can’t complain,” Brainard shrugged.

                A silence fell over the group as Albert approached them, a certain nervousness about him.

                “Well I’ll be damned,” Brainard muttered. “That Albert Cashier?”

                “Sure is,” Jeff told him.

                “Little Al? Ha! It is him, isn’t it? Think he’s gotten shorter—if that’s possible.”

                “Maybe I have,” Albert snapped, catching the end of that exchange as he arrived in front of them. “But I’m still ten times the shot you are, if you’re shooting is as lousy as I remember Eli Brainard!”

                This was greeted with an uproar of laughter from the group of five seated around the bar, and Albert cracked a sly smile as he took up a seat between Jeff and Brainard. Besides Jeff and Albert, there were three other faithful survivors of Company G—Eli Brainard, Charles Danforth, and, Albert noticed with a surprise, their very own Commander, Lieutenant Ives.

                “Can still throw a solid punch too,” he carried on.

                “Well, we can see that,” said Ives, eyeing Albert’s bruises from the other end of the bar.

                “Oh, these?” Albert shrugged, taking a sip from the glass placed in front of him. “That’s nothin’. You should see the other guy.”

 

* * *

 

The afternoon ran smoothly from there, and despite his initial anxieties, Albert had no trouble fitting himself into the lengthy reminisces and playful banter that filled their conversations. He was truly enjoying himself, and was beginning to wonder why he hadn’t come to one of these reunions sooner. 

                Jeff was in the midst of a story that, since Jeff was narrator, was ten times longer than it probably needed to be, when Albert’s attention was caught by a young man entering the bar. If his dark eyes weren’t familiar enough, the hint of a blood stain on his shirt collar confirmed for Albert who this was. He had evidently succeeded in procuring a new vest—and Albert would not begin to wonder by what unfortunate means he had acquired it—but evidently he had not found a new shirt, and had had to content himself with washing the stain out as best he could.

                Confident that, with his entourage of four army veterans prepared to back him up him up if need be, he had the upper hand, Albert did not hesitate to make glaring eye contact with the boy as he strode up to the bar.

                It took a moment for the boy to spot him, and when he did Albert was delighted to see a startled look flash across his features before he composed himself and returned the glare. He took a seat as far down the bar as he could manage, throwing occasional gazes in Albert’s direction.

                Once he had himself settled and a drink in hand, Albert rose from his seat, intent on approaching his former attacker. Jeff, finally finished his story, followed Albert’s gaze, and reading his face he pieced things together. Before he could wander off Jeff caught his shoulder.

                “Al… you sure that’s a good idea?”

                “What’ve I got to lose?”

                “Quite a few teeth, some currently unbroken bones, real nice eyes, and—”

                “Jeff—I’ll be alright.”

                “Okay…” Jeff murmured, clearly unconvinced. “How about I come with you? You know I could probably get—”

                “I’ll be fine. Just hang back here, alright?”

                “Okay…”

                With that Albert excused himself. As he arrived beside the reckless young boy who had tried to rob him a day before he threw his drink down on the counter and took up the nearest seat.     

                “New vest?”

                “ _Same coat?_ ” The boy mocked, looking Albert over with a disapproving sneer. Although, if one looked close enough, it could be easily read that his sneer was a mere façade to hide how genuinely impressed and intrigued he was by the man beside him.

                “I don’t believe I got your name,” the boy continued.

                “I don’t believe I got yours.”

                Silence.

                “It’s Harry,” the boy said begrudgingly. In the same moment he averted his eyes, surrendering a lengthy staring contest neither of them remembered starting. “Harry Allen.”

                Albert offered his hand.

                “Albert Cashier.”

                “Those some friends of yours?” he asked, eyeing the group of veterans on the other side of the bar.

                “My comrades.”

                “Really?” Harry laughed.

                “Yeah?”

                “You fought in the war?”

                “Sure did—I did my three years in the army before you were even a thought in your mama’s mind.”

                “Well…” Harry said, studying Albert with an impressive poker face. “Maybe I underestimated you, _Mr. Cashier_ …”

                “Maybe you did.'

                A moment later, Harry added, with a genuine curiosity, “What side?”

                “Don’t insult me,” Albert scoffed.

                “Union…?” Harry asked tentatively.

                “Damn right—do I look like some dirty rebel to you?”

                Harry gave a weak shrug, and Albert flashed him a smile. “Company G, Illinois 95th Infantry Regiment,” he recited proudly.

                Harry seemed to be growing more comfortable as their conversation carried on, and he did his excessive show of confidence and toughness was slowly dropping fading away.

                “Listen, er…” Was that a look of shame on his face? Albert tried not to revel in it too much. “I’m sorry about yesterday—"

                Their conversation was abruptly interrupted as someone charged through the door to the tavern and the whole room fell silent. Flanked by two young deputies, the sheriff stood in the doorway, scanning the bar with eyes narrowed. Whatever shield Harry may have begun to let down, Albert noticed, immediately went back up as the police arrived.

                “There a problem, sheriff? The tavern keeper asked from the bar, clearly displeased to have his business invaded by these officers of the law.

                “Got a warrant for Nell Pickerell,” the sheriff answered, stepping closer to the bar.

                Beside him Albert noticed Harry squirming in his seat, frantically whispering, “Shit-shit-shit…”

                “Again?” the tavern keeper questioned. He threw a glance in Harry’s direction, immediately regretting his action, as the sheriff quickly followed his gaze. As soon as his eyes landed upon Harry, the sheriff knew he’d found just who he was looking for. The tavern keeper, evidently a cohort of Harry’s, made an effort to divert the sheriff’s attention, but he would have none of it. Pushing past Albert with little regard, he seized young Harry by the arm and dragged him off his seat.

                “Miss Pickerell, you are under arrest by warrant of the honorable Judge Mason—”

                “On what charges?” Harry demanded, spitting in the sheriff’s face as he and his deputies struggled to force him into handcuffs.

                “ _What charges madam_? You are charged as a vagrant, a drunk, a cross-dresser, and a disturber of the peace—to name a few!”

                “Bullshit!” Harry cried as he made a last-ditch effort to escape the deputies securing his wrists. “I ain’t done nothing wrong—well, except that toss I had with Leonard yesterday afternoon—but I didn’t start that, no matter what the goddamn witnesses say! You can’t drag me off just for bein’ in town!”

                “The city of Chicago will gladly welcome your arrival, Miss Pickerell, as soon as you learn to abide by proper etiquette.”

                “Proper etiquette, my ass!” Harry grumbled, giving up the fight. He continued with occasional protests as the officers lead him out the door.

                Once they were gone, the rest of the tavern went about their business as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The only exception was the small gathering of Albert’s comrades. Besides Jeff, they had all come from out of town, and Jeff himself had barely been in Chicago a year. None of the five veterans had yet heard of Chicago’s notorious Nell Pickerell. This strange encounter was the subject of discussion as Albert rejoined his friends, and he was quickly pulled into the conversation against his will.

                “You know that girl, Albert?” Ives inquired.

                “No…” Albert answered distantly.

                “Couldn’t even tell she was a girl ‘til that policeman started callin’ her madam!” Brainard exclaimed, much more amused than he should have been on account of all he’d had to drink.

                “You remember that girl that got caught in the 95th at Jacksonville? In uh… oh what company was it?”

                “Company K!”

                “Yeah, that was it!”

                “Now that one weren’t so good at hiding it—what I heard was that there were a few boys that had figured it out early on, but they didn’t saying nothin’ because, well—she found ways to keep ‘em quiet if you know what I mean!”

                They carried on like this for the next several minutes, and, growing increasingly uncomfortable, Albert chose to excuse himself.

                “Think I’ll call it a day,” Albert said. It was hardly seven o’clock, and normally Albert would’ve gladly stayed and drank with his old friends late into the night, but a sudden fear seized his heart as they carried on about that “man-woman”, as they called poor Harry, and he knew he’d be better off to rest up before he had to face the same men again tomorrow.

                “So early! Oh, c’mon Al, you’ve hardly finished your second drink."

                “That first one didn’t go down so well,” Albert said dismissively. “Not feelin’ so good now. I’m just gonna head out… I’ll, uh… I’ll see you boys tomorrow.”

                Jeff, who had been silent himself throughout much of the raunchy banter of the last few minutes, followed Albert out of the bar, calling after him before he could slip down the alley.

                “Hey! Albert! C’mon, don’t just run off like that!” He said, and reluctantly Albert stopped.

                With his usual awkward limp Jeff approached him, coming near and speaking in a hushed, gentle tone.

                “You okay?”

                “I’m fine,” Albert said. They both knew that was a lie.

                “’Cause you know those guys don’t suspect a thing— I mean, not that— Even if they did they wouldn’t-- We’re you’re friends Albert, all of us, and we’ll look out for you. Those drunk bastards can talk all they want but they’d never lay a hand on you if they knew— ‘course I’d never let ‘em if they tried, but they wouldn’t, and ‘course they don’t know—”

                "Jeff,” Albert said softly. “Are _you_ okay?”

                “I’m talking too much, ain’t I?”

                “Little bit.”

                Jeff heaved a heavy sigh and rocked back on his heals, evidently trying to calm himself.

                “I’ll be alright,” Albert insisted, laying a reassuring hand on his arm. “Just need some rest.”

                “I can head back with you—”

                “Don’t let me spoil your fun. Go on back in there. I know the way back.”

                “Alright…” Jeff said, uncertain. “You be careful headin’ down that alley.”

                “You’d be better to warn whoever’s lurking down there tonight,” Albert called over his shoulder as he headed off. “I’m ready for ‘em this time.”


	3. Lookin' Out for One of his Own

Harry had spent many long nights in a jail cell, and he had long since grown accustomed to it. It was typically quite bearable, and far better than some of the sorry places he found himself sleeping when he had his freedom. Indeed, on more than one occasion he had started a fight simply because he could sense a storm was coming and a jail cell would at least guarantee a roof over his head for the night. Yet on this night, his captivity proved less than agreeable.

                Not only had he been brought to the jail on such flimsy charges as vagrancy and public drunkenness, but evidently the Chicago prison had gotten a new matron in his time away. This brought a whole new challenge to Harry’s time in prison. Whereas the old matron had long since given up on turning Harry from his manly habits, this new woman seemed convinced she would be the one to accomplish it.

                “Ah, Miss Pickerell,” she said as she arrived at Harry’s cell with a tray of bread and water in hand. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

                Harry gave only a vague grunt of acknowledgment as she opened the door and stepped inside. He kept his back turned, sitting atop his cot with his feet thrown up on the windowsill. Outside the cell a guard watched diligently to be sure Harry didn’t over whelm the small woman.

                “You’re a hard nut to crack, so I hear.”

                “Yes, ma’am, so I’d suggest you take the advice I’m sure your predecessor gave you and go on and leave me be.”

                “I’ve brought your dinner,” she said. At that Harry reluctantly turned around. Much as he wanted to ignore her peace offering, he couldn’t deny that hunger was gnawing at his stomach. As she handed the tray to him Harry noticed something folded under her arm. He let out a bitter chuckle when he realized what it was.

                “I suppose you think you’ll have me put that travesty on,” he laughed.

                “Miss Pickerell,” the matron said coolly. “You are in the jail in part because of your unlawful wearing of men’s clothing.”

                “That so? Guess them boys on the police force must be gettin’ jealous. They know what a sight I am to the ladies in this fine suit and don’t want the competition.”

                “Miss Pickerell, you would be much better off in this—”

                “You clearly haven’t seen me in a dress if you think I’d be better off, matron,” Harry said with a laugh. He could see how his laughter and his cool confidence incensed her and took this as reason to keep it up. “Put me in a dress and I am a horrid fright! My own mother will tell you that!”

                Finished with the meager meal of bread and water she’d brought him, Harry set the tray on the floor and again, much to the matron’s dismay, threw his feet up on the windowsill.

                “Miss Pickerell, must you be so improper in your every action.”

                Harry gave her a look to say that propriety was the very least of his concerns. The matron closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then asked impatiently if he would stand up.

                “Sure I’ll stand for you but you’re not getting me into that death trap,” he said, eyeing the gray dress she now unfolded before her.

                “Well if you refuse to comply I will be forced to get assistance from the guards.” She said matter-of-factly. “Now Miss Pickerell, this is your final chance. Kindly undress yourself before I bring guards in here to help me do it myself.”

                “Like hell you will.”

                “Very well,” the matron said, and she nodded to the guard outside.

                Harry watched the guard carefully as he entered the cell and came over to him. He was a young fellow. Probably hadn’t done the job very long and certainly wasn’t paid enough for his efforts. As he entered Harry bowed his head and let his shoulders slump, mimicking a sense of defeat that had the desired effect of lowering the defenses of this naïve young prison guard. Then, just as the guard came forward and took hold of his left arm, Harry sprung forward and with his right hand threw a heavy punch at his nose.

                A faint crack accompanied the blow, and a smear of blood marked Harry’s knuckle as he drew back. The guard shrank away, his pride just as shattered as the nose from which blood streamed onto the floor of the cell.

                At this the matron’s sense of superiority at last fell away, and she suddenly went very pale.

                “M- Madam,” the guard stuttered. Was he holding back tears? “I think perhaps we ought to—”

                “Yes,” the matron agreed nervously.

                Without another word the pair withdrew, and although the matron left the dress folded on the windowsill, Harry knew well that she would think twice before she tried to dress him again.

 

* * * 

 

That night, Jeff came home early enough to find Albert still awake, though only just, reclined in a chair in the parlor and absent-mindedly smoking a pipe. Betty, Jeff’s wife, had kept Albert company with polite small talk for much of the evening, but when ten-thirty arrived and her husband was still nowhere to be found, she had excused herself. Thus, Albert sat enjoying a moment of solitude when his old friend returned from the night’s festivities.

                “Back so soon?” Albert teased as he came through the door.

                “Am I?”

                “Before midnight.”

                “Huh, so it is,” Jeff said. “Good thing too, because I gotta be up real early tomorrow, you know, because I told John Betterton I’d help him set things up—”

                In the many years he’d known Jeffery, Albert had developed a talent for tuning out his ramblings while still carrying on a convincing act of listening. He employed this talent now, as Jeff sat down across from him and detailed everything Albert had missed since he left the tavern, pausing only to take an occasional drag from a cigar. In his tired mind Albert had no way of knowing just how long had passed before Jeff’s question pulled him out of his daze.

                “You wanna talk about it?”

                “’bout what, Jeff?” Albert asked, stifling a yawn.

                “That Nell Pickerell gal you were talking to at the bar.”

                “Hmm?” It took Albert a moment to remember how the sheriff had introduced Harry to the entire tavern using a name he clearly did not enjoy. “Oh, Harry.”

                “Harry?”

                “He goes by Harry,” Albert explained.  “That’s ‘bout all I got out of him before the sheriff took him away.”

                “Same one that tried to rob you as you were coming from the station yesterday?”

                “Mmhmm.”

“Well this, uh, Harry fellow,” Jeff carried on, tripping over his words. “She, er— _He’s_ , um… he’s like you, Al.”

                Still lazily reclined in his arm chair, Albert raised an eyebrow. “You callin’ me a vagrant and a drunk?” he countered.

Was it cruel to let his well-meaning friend suffer through this conversation so? Maybe. That didn’t stop Albert.

                “No, ‘course not! I just mean that he… You know…”

                “I know, Jeff,” Albert said. After a stiff silence he sat up in his seat, took a long drag from his pipe, and added, “He knows—about me.”

                “He does?”

“Yesterday, at our first meeting, if you can call it that, he had me pinned against a wall, tryna steal the clothes off my back. His hands brushed over a few things that gave me away.”

                “And what did he do?” Jeff asked nervously.

                “Nothin’,” Albert answered. “He just ran off. Left all my belongings behind and told me to keep ‘em. Couldn’t understand it at the time, but, I s’pose it makes a little more sense now. Lookin’ out for one of his own, or somethin’ like that.”

                “Yeah…” Jeff muttered. Then he was quiet for quite a while, absent-mindedly drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. Evidently, he was deep in thought. What surprised Albert was how he managed to keep so silent about whatever was going through his head.

                “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this quiet before,” Albert commented. “Except maybe that time we were hidin’ from General Macarthur during camp inspection.”

                Jeff smiled at the memory, and said softly, “Oh, I was just thinkin’ is all.”

                “’bout what?”

                “I was thinking maybe it ain’t right—them locking that fellow Harry up like they did. When he ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

                “Well he did come very near to robbin’ me,” Albert reminded him. “Not to mention give me some nasty bruises.”

                Albert said this, and yet something in his tone suggested he was speaking to convince himself as much as he was Jeff.

                “Yeah…” Jeff said. “I guess.”

                “Anyway, why bring all this up?” Albert pressed.

                “Well, you said when he ran off the other day without takin’ anything, it was sort of like he was, lookin’ out for one of his own.”

                “Yeah?”

                “I just got a suspicion he ain’t got too many people lookin’ out for him like that. You know?”

                “I guess…” Albert said distantly. Before Jeff could read on his face just how much his words had affected him, Albert rose from his seat.

                “This is why I never come out here, you know,” he went on. “Nothin’ but trouble out here in the big city. But I did come here for a reason—don’t forget we got this reunion tomorrow. Time to rest up.”

                With that said, Albert bid his friend goodnight and ascended the narrow staircase. In Jeff’s guest bedroom he settled himself beneath a wool blanket and closed his eyes. For now, he would leave this Harry Allen nonsense out of his mind.


End file.
